


The Thunder Clap, and other weather related tales

by captivation



Category: American Horror Story: Murder House
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-07
Updated: 2012-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-07 12:35:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4263492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captivation/pseuds/captivation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I think the sky is cracking open." Just a whisper in her ear, his breath hot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> These works were inspired by a crazy rainstorm at my house, and then I just rolled with the weather theme. There's barely a timeline between them, just for fun. I recommend listening to "A Fresh Pair of Eyes" by Brooke Waggoner while reading this first chapter. Or all of them.

It’s raining at the Murder House.

Violet is out in the gazebo. She was reading, but now her book is tucked safely under her skirt, out of the rain.

It’s not just raining. It’s storming. Thunder, lightning, wind, rain drops the size of pebbles.

It came all of a sudden. Moira rushed around the house closing windows, and Vivien grabbed the little baby from the blanket laid over the grass. He had been cooing happily at his mother, but erupted into tears the moment the rain started. Violet didn’t anticipate him stopping anytime soon.

She saw Tate lurking earlier. Lurking isn’t the right word. Watching. Not in a creepy way, just making sure she’s alright.

It’s been 2 months. All Violet remembers from that night is a moment of screaming that was so loud she wanted to cover her ears like a child, and then Tate was gone. His absence seemed too quiet.

Violet didn’t see him for a few days, and she foolishly believed she could get over him. Then he was back and every blond curl made her wet.

The day had been sickeningly humid, but now Violet is shivering, frigid gusts of rain soaked wind beating against her face. She doesn’t mind. After being hot all day, a little cold rain feels nice.

A thin fork of lightning flashes right down the middle of the sky. The thunder clap that follows comes in two parts; a low rumble, followed by a roaring, splitting blow that shakes the bones of the Murder House. The baby wails from inside. Violet can imagine her mother clutching the boy to her chest and resuming that natural bounce everyone starts when holding a baby, shushing and rubbing his back desperately.

Violet doesn’t feel him approach because of the wind.

“I think the sky is cracking open.” Just a whisper in her ear, his breath hot.

She turns to find him halfway across the yard. Violet stands and runs out of the shelter of the gazebo. Her book clatters to the floor and raindrops pepper the cover. Tate is gone again, so she waits, knowing he’ll be back.

Her arms raise at her sides and her head falls back. The water slaps her skin.

“Violet, what are you doing? Come inside!” Her father calls from the house. She doesn’t acknowledge him.

“The sky is cracking open. What do you think is coming out?”

His voice is right behind her.

She knows he doesn’t expect an answer to his question, and any other time she would ignore him. She doesn’t give him an answer today, but she gives him something else.

“Stay with me for a while, Tate.”

It is by no means forgiveness.

Tate touches the soaked cloth covering her shoulders. His fingers smooth down her arms and cover her hands. They stand together, arms out, faces up, bodies leaning into each other.

Soon Violet’s cheeks sting and she looks forward, withdraws her hands from Tate’s and wipes the hair from her forehead. She turns around as Tate grasps for her again. With his hands on her lower back and both of them completely soaked in clean rain, Violet kisses Tate.

Maybe the water carried away his sins, feeding the grass at their feet.

His lips are wet and sweet, just as she remembers, like she lets herself imagine late at night.

The rain stops as quick as it began. The sudden quiet shocks Violet; she realizes just what she’s doing. She takes her mouth away from Tate’s. He’s frowning.

Violet’s lips feel lonely already.

“Find me the next time it rains,” she says softly, and disappears.

Only Tate remains in the drenched backyard. He looks up at the sky again, arms out, the sun and chirping birds swirling with the mist left by the summer storm. 


	2. Snow Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tate anxiously awaits snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was challenged by an old friend to make this whole concept serious, and I had a LOT of fun doing it.

It was a Christmas miracle.

Sort of. It was far into January, but it was snowing at the Murder House. Snowing is a loose term; dusting is probably better. Just some light flakes drifting down and coating blades of grass. The temperature was barely hitting 32 degrees.

Tate woke up that Tuesday and rushed to the attic window like a little kid on a snow day, waiting to hear if his school was closed. Of course, he wasn’t going to school, but he had something else to hope for.

Just last week, Violet had invited him to play a game of cards. He wanted terribly to bring up their rain soaked kiss so many weeks ago, but this was such a rare occurrence, Violet initiating contact with him, that he kept his mouth shut. As she laid down her winning hand, he took a risk.

“If I win the next game, will you kiss me again?”

She scoffed.

“Yeah, and if we get four inches of snow I’ll let you go down on me.”

Tate was frozen, but Violet, the little trickster, smiled and shuffled the cards.

And when he won the next game, she put a hand on his cheek and gave him a quick, lingering peck on the lips.

That kiss was what drove Tate outside on that snowy day. She had jokingly said she would kiss him, but then actually followed through. He dug around in her father’s office for a ruler or a yard stick or something with increments of measurement, and stationed himself outside, letting the snow build up on his shoulders.

It was the coldest Tate had felt in years, but the thought of Violet’s warm, creamy thighs on either side of his head kept his spirits up.

Slowly, very slowly, the snow accumulated. It reached 3 inches, and Tate knew this was a miraculous day.

He figured, even if it never got to 4 inches, Violet would see how willing he was to touch her. Spending the coldest day of the year outside with a ruler was, in Tate’s opinion, a pretty good way to show his commitment to her. He hoped beyond belief that she would take pity on him and let him into her bed to “warm up.”

The back door of the house opened and Violet stepped out, wrapping a gigantic sweater around her shivering body. None of the ghosts were really prepared for this weather.

“Tate, what the hell are you doing?”

“I’m measuring the snow.”

“Why?”

“You said if we got 4 inches of snow you would let me go down on you.”

She looked at him in complete shock. “You are so stupid.”

“So you didn’t mean it?”

He could see the “no” poised on her lips, but she didn’t say it. Instead, softly, “how long have you been out here?”

“I don’t know, a few hours? I kind of lost track of time.”

Violet smiled softly at him from her spot, leaning against the door. For a second, Tate held her affectionate gaze, and the cold gripping his chest and pinching his fingers didn’t seem so bad. He knew suddenly that this little stunt of his had paid off. He probably wouldn’t get to go down on her, but she was looking at him like she used to.

“You must be freezing.” She approached him, stepping carefully down the wet steps, and brushed the snow out of his hair, then swept the tiny piles off his shoulders. “Why don’t you come inside?”

“The snow’s only up to 3 inches.”

“That’s alright.”

“It’s still coming down, I have to be out here to see if it reaches 4.”

Violet’s warm fingers lifted his face to look up at hers.

“Tate, it’s alright. Come inside.” She punctuated the two words with a motion of her head, gesturing towards the upstairs of the house. Her room. Tate could have cried he was so happy.

He followed her like a puppy, right up to her room. She shed her layers quickly until only her underwear and thin t shirt remained, then pulled Tate onto her bed, looking almost disinterested the whole time, like she was doing him a very inconvenient favor. But as soon as Tate hooked two fingers under the waistband of her flimsy panties, she lost it. She flung them off her ankle and Tate took a second to just admire the sight in front of him. He hadn’t had Violet, let alone half naked Violet, this close to him in _years_.

She fidgeted, inching closer. He held her thighs with ten frozen fingers.

“Jesus Christ, Tate, your hands are freezing,” she cried and twisted underneath his grip, but didn’t push his hands away.

“Sorry,” he breathed, and pressed an obscene, open mouthed kiss to her delicate folds. A relieved breath shuddered out of him; relieved to have his mouth on Violet again. She was breathing too, gasping and winding her fingers into his hair, forgetting about the cold grasp he had on her legs.

He was right. Her thighs felt magnificent against his cheeks. Warm and soft and better than anything he could ever imagine.

She was so wet against his lips. Her clit was swollen and pink, and throbbed against his pressing tongue. Violet’s hands gripped his hair hard, and he smiled.

This was like a dream. He had dreamed of this. Feeling his Violet in such an intimate way. It was absolutely worth a day in the cold. To have her cumming against his mouth, around his tongue, was worth an eternity of days in rarely seen snow.

When Violet finally released Tate’s hair and he was sitting up, he just watched her. She was flushed and breathing hard, her nipples straining at the fabric of her shirt, looking around like that was the best thing she had ever felt, and she was just as beautiful as Tate remembered. It was a pornographic snow day, a break from Tate’s fuck ups and Violet’s familial guilt.

It was a Christmas miracle.


	3. Sick with Sweat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief encounter between Tate and Violet with a lot of sweat.

He’s still inside her.

When Violet returns from her post-orgasm haze, she realizes suddenly how goddamn hot she is. Tate’s collapsed over her body, covering every inch, and she’s impossibly slicked with sweat.

“Tate, Jesus, it’s one million degrees, get off,” she whines with a shove to his shoulder.

This is usually her favorite part of sex, the after, when she can reach out and touch the body that she has become so familiar with since she died. She knows Tate inside and out, and she thinks she might know herself too, because he knows her.

He won’t move.

“Violet,” Tate whines against her collarbone, “just let me stay for a bit.”

“You’re like a giant puppy. You’re so cute, but it’s so hot.” She rolls him off and he flops next to her, naked and sprawled out and flushed everywhere and pure sex. His eyes are closed, so Violet watches him shamelessly.

His hair is soaked. It should be disgusting, but she figures she doesn’t look much better. It had been record high temperatures in LA this past week, and everyone at the Murder House was living in a constant state of sweat-soaked grumpiness. To get away from the bickering, Tate and Violet had fled to her room hoping to cool off, but things heated up.

Now Violet can literally feel the sweat dripping all over her body, and she knows it’s not just her sweat, it’s Tate’s. They’d fucked, Tate over her, and their sweat had mingled.

He opens his sleepy puppy eyes. He always gets this look when he sees Violet, like he is so unbelievably happy to just have her next to him, like he’s a little boy and she’s his favorite toy.

These days, they’re just kids, in love.

Violet curls into him, resting her cheek on his ribs because she just wants to touch him all the time.

In seconds, wetness drips down her jaw and into her ear. She sits up, giggling and rubbing at the tickling sweat. Tate swoops up and hugs her playfully, squishing her head against his chest.

“Tate, stop! It’s so hot,” Violet cries and pries away from his sticky skin.

“Hey, Vi, I know, just come here for a second.” He holds her cheeks with his fingertips and kisses the tip of her nose. “I love you, even when you’re drenched in sweat and totally gross.”

“I love you too, sweaty puppy.”

“Is that your new nickname for me? Puppy?”

“Why not? You’re cute, puppies are cute.”

“Can’t argue with that logic.” He kisses her nose one more time, then falls back to the bed. Violet lounges next to him, smiling. “If it doesn’t cool off tomorrow I’m going to kill someone. Probably Chad.”

“Shut up.”

“It’s the heat talking. I’m delirious.” Violet laughs, happy and loose, and in just a few minutes, she is asleep.

 


	4. The Windy Kitty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tate and Violet find a kitten.

Violet steps outside, and it’s immediate. The wind hits her head on, tangling her hair around her face, wrapping her skirt around her thin legs. The sky is dark, but the rain hasn’t arrived yet.

They were playing cards inside, Tate and Violet, when the wind started knocking tree branches against the windows, scrapes and taps.

Violet goes to the window and looks out at the yard.

“I bet some branches will come down.”                   

Tate shuffles the cards, uninterested.

“I hope Beau doesn’t get scared.” She sees something outside, glances at him over her shoulder. “Tate?”

“Hm?”

“I think there’s a kitten out there.”

He’s at her side in a second. “What? Where?”

“There, next to the gazebo.”

“I wonder where it came from,” Tate’s saying ,but she’s gone, out the door. He follows, and clutches Violet as the wind nearly knocks them both over. “Violet, come back inside, the cat will be fine,” he yells over the roaring wind.

“I can’t leave it out there!”

And she’s gone.

“Violet!”

Of course he follows her, running after a kitten into a windy, heat infused, storm.

She’s crouching by the gazebo, holding out her hands to the tiny calico long haired kitten. Tate can hear her murmuring encouraging words to the cat softly, so quiet and smooth, almost sexual. The kitten rubs it’s face against the railing, and hops down the steps into Violet’s waiting hands with a tiny meow.

They hear the first rumble of thunder, and suddenly it’s pouring. Violet folds the kitten into her chest and Tate grabs her arm, pulling her up and towards the house.

Soaked, the couple leans against the door to the kitchen, breathing hard. The kitten makes a tiny kitten noise and bats a paw at Violet’s dripping hair.

“Didn’t the previous owners leave some cat food in the basement?” Violet asks while the kitten nuzzles up into her neck.

Tate nods and disappears to the basement. Returning with the dusty cans, he finds Violet on the floor, rolling the kitten around playfully between her outstretched legs. She’s wearing the biggest grin Tate’s seen in a long while. He peels the lid off a can and sets it in front of the kitten.

“What should we name her?” Violet asks.

“Her?”

“I checked.” Tate makes a face.

“You are 36 years old, don’t make that face.”

He smiles, and Violet watches his dimples peek out.

“I was thinking something like Teacup, or lady bug. Maybe jelly bean.” Tate lit up.

“I like Teacup.”

“Then it’s decided.”

…

Later, when the storm has calmed to a steady patter of drops on the roof, Tate and Violet fall asleep on their bed, the kitten stretched out in the apex of their joined hands.

 

 


End file.
